


Burning Love

by GubraithianFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Musicians, Recreational Drug Use, References to the Beatles, Teenlock, Top John Watson, sherlock and john play the guitar in a band yay, so many of them i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Hamburg, 1960.</i><br/> </p><p>After their usual night perfomance at the club, John takes Sherlock to the bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shail/gifts).



> _To Sharon, without whom this fic would have never been finished. Thank you so much._
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> Based on [this](http://static.tumblr.com/uu1uo3a/XJqmaonda/tumblr_maesybjsge1r8h1mio1_500.jpg) McLennon fanart that changed my life back when I was a sweet, innocent fifteen-year-old. The song in the description is by [Burning Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zf2VYAtqRe0) by Elvis Presley. The story is actually set in 1960 in Hamburg, and the song came out in 1972 but… Poetic licence, humour me.
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> Enjoy! :) xx

**҉     ҉** **҉**

 

_Boy, boy, boy, boy_

_You’re gonna set me on fire_

_My brain is flaming_

_I don’t know which way to go_

_‘Cause your kisses lift me higher_

_Like the sweet song of a choir_

_You light my morning sky_

_With burning love._

 

**҉     ҉** **҉**

**28 th August 1960**

Hamburg, Große Freiheit 36

God, he loved this. The cheering crowd, the warmth of his own sweat cooling between his tight t-shirt and his damp skin. He loved the scratching in his throat, as he screamed himself hoarse in the shite mic of that shithole in which they performed. Christ, it was a right den.

But John _adored_ it. The filthy walls and humid air, the rancid smell of swear and alcohol, the soiled floor and the greasy wood of the counter. It made John feel alive.

And the boy yelling in his same microphone, his cheek moving alongside John’s, made him feel even more alive than he had ever been.

Because John was tired. Tired of his aunt’s polished china and her house scrubbed clean. He was tired of how _proper_ she was and how _proper_ she wanted him to be. Tired of her banging with her broom on the ceiling when he sang Elvis at the top of his lungs, tired of her eyeing Sherlock up and down when he came to his house to play.

Sherlock who wore hand-me-down clothes, whose hair was a wild shock of dark, his eyes slivers of ice. Sherlock who was tall and a bit gangly, yet elegant and beautifully _dirty._

His voice when he sang was melted chocolate mixed with danger, and it made John shiver, shocks of pleasure running down his spine like ice cubes. But also a warm blanket surrounding him and making him feel safe.

Sherlock Holmes, his best friend since John was sixteen and the boy fourteen, was a contradiction in himself. And John’s aunt Nilly knew that.

That was why her hazelnut eyes narrowed on the lanky teen whenever he came over to John’s house with his guitar and a block notes full of songs drafts the boys had written together.

The song ended, and John, high on the feeling of being young and alive and in love, drew his solo out, making it a bit longer.

The girls right in front of them swooned and cheered, but John’s focus was on Sherlock, smirking at him from his right, a glint in his eyes that said “ _We’re so going to shag later_.”

John smirked back, and ended their last piece. Christ, he was high as a kite.

Being an amateur musician in Hamburg in 1960 meant shitty working schedules, shitty living condition, and shitty everything in general.

But just the thought of being away from Liverpool, just he and his best friend and Greg and Bill and Mike, well, it made it all worth it.

Tonight they had to perform from midnight till five, and they were nowhere near tired. They had all taken some _prellies_[1] somewhere near three in the morning, and the pills were still having their effect. Which was a plus, since just the thought of going back to their shitty room made them all sick. The drugs helped with that too.

They made the five of them sleep like the dead, even when stacked in a hideous, miniscule room made of concrete walls. There were just two sets of bunk beds, and thank God Mike had gone and fell for a German girl, or they’d honest to God wouldn’t know how the fuck to split their beds. The room was in the backstage of a cinema, right next to the sodding toilets, and you could always fucking smell them. There was no heating, no wallpaper, no paint. There was a shortage of covers as well. They were using Union Jack flags, for Christ’s sakes.

And yet John was the happiest he had ever been.

“Done for the night, uh?” Bill Murray called from behind his drums, an infectious grin on his thin lips, his face a mask of sweat.

“Thank God,” John replied, a tad out of breath, carefully placing his Rickenbacker 325 in its case.

Beside him Sherlock hummed in agreement, tenderly polishing his Hofner Club before shutting it away.

They could hear their small crowd of fans still screaming just behind them, where they were crouched putting their instruments and amps away.

“Birds goin’ crazy toneight,” Bill chirped happily, walking up to his bandmates. Mike rolled his eyes, “Got a bird of me own,” he said, jumping off the stage to kiss deeply a pretty blonde girl.

Alina was an angel. She had taken them under her protective wing, bringing their dirty laundry to her mum, and letting them use her bathroom to wash, once in a while.

It was a blessing that they’d met her so soon after getting to Hamburg, and even more so that she and Mike had fallen so deeply in love. He was already staying at her place, and thinking of leaving the band to pursue his art studies in Germany. Mike was a wank bassist anyways. They’d miss their mate, sure, but if he was happier in Hamburg than in rotting Liverpool than good for him.

Greg Lestrade yawned loudly, clapping Bill on the shoulder.

“Let’s go get some shag,” he grinned, and Bill beamed at him.

“Bye shirt-lifters, don’t be too long or all the pussies’ll be all ours!”

John smiled down at his guitar case, before glancing at Sherlock from under his lashes. Sherlock bit his lip and winked at him, causing John’s stomach to flip over itself.

If only their mates knew.

When their stuff was neatly tucked away in the back of the stage, John confidently walked to the bathroom, the sound of twin steps following behind making his heart beat a thousand mile per second, in every single limb of his sweaty, panting body.

He entered the bathroom and chose a cubicle, then turned. He leaned with his back against its wooden door staring enthralled as Sherlock predatorily stalked towards him.

Sherlock gripped his hips and dipped his head. “You’ve been great tonight,” he growled in his ear, capturing a lobe between his teeth and then sucking.

John giggled, shoving his best friend away. “Tickles,” he explained, turning his back to Sherlock and opening the cubicle. He stood in there, smirking flirtatiously.

“Come in?” He queried, biting his lip. John didn’t miss the strangled noise Sherlock emitted, nor how swollen his tight trousers suddenly looked.

Not that John was in a better situation.

In one long stride, Sherlock was inside the cubicle, shutting it behind him.

The cubicle floor was filthy, urine mixed with the dirt brought in by the customers’ boots. It stank foully, but right then, with Sherlock palming his cock through too many layers of clothing and sucking on his collarbone, John didn’t give a flying fuck.

“Christ, slow down,” he panted, utterly unable to keep up with the boy, in sex like in everything else. Sherlock was an unrestrainable force.

 John took hold of the younger boy’s wrists and pinned them to the door.

“Slow. Down,” He repeated, his mouth trailing over Sherlock’s skin, now covered in goosebumps. Sherlock literally _meowled_ , before rasping, “John.”

John smiled at the tone, so raw and desperate.

“Tell me, luv,” He whispered against Sherlock cheek, making him tremble. “What is it you want?”

“I need you.” Sherlock’s voice made John feel one thousand degrees hotter, and God, he was _so_ fucking high. His head was spinning, his vision blurred. He was in a rotting cubicle with his beautiful best friend with whom he was incredibly in love with and who loved him back just the same.

They had told each other just days before leaving for Hamburg.

They were listening to Buddy Holly in John’s bedroom, kissing fervently. Sherlock’s hands were everywhere, and John couldn’t keep up with his urgency. So he had leant back, and saw Sherlock’s swollen lips, his pupils blown with lust, his hair a mess from where John had run his fingers. And he loved him so much, that kid who had taught him how to properly play a guitar, that kid that wrote songs with him and kissed him and John loved him.

“I love you,” John had said, his tone surprised.

And Sherlock had smiled slowly, and he looked so bloody young, and he replied, “Me too.”

And now they were in Hamburg, dry humping like animals in that bathroom.

John turned and closed the toilet seat, then opened the fly of his leather trousers and sat on it.

“C’mon baby,” He told Sherlock, “You wanna ride?”

Sherlock giggled, “That was terrible.”

John smiled at him. He loved him so much.

Sherlock was beautiful when he smiled.

Sherlock shoved his trousers and pants down, then clambered on John’s bare thighs.

John lifted his left hand, prying Sherlock’s mouth open with three fingers. “Suck,” he said, and Sherlock complied, lapping and sucking, his pretty lips growing redder and redder.

Before John could self-combust, or die of a heart attack, he pulled his fingers out of Sherlock’s mouth.

He parted Sherlock’s arse cheeks with a hand, then circled the boy’s hole with his spit-covered finger. Sherlock moaned softly in John’s ear, and John couldn’t take it, he couldn’t. He was burning.

He worked Sherlock open with expert precision, knowing all too well the other boy’s body.

“John, I’m ready, come on John,” Sherlock whispered urgently, rolling his white hips.

“Oh, fuck,” John said, helping Sherlock position himself on his cock. Sherlock immediately started to move.

“Baby,” John rasped, at loss for a couple of seconds. But then he caught up with his tornado of a best friend and took home a deep thrust. Sherlock screamed, hugging John’s neck and throwing his head back.

John couldn’t look at him, so he buried his face in the teen’s neck.

Christ, he was already going to come. He increased the pace, a hand gripping one of Sherlock’s arse cheek, the other pumping his cock between them. He was already leaking copiously, and it was wet and incredibly hard. Sherlock was close too then, judging by his little moans and yelps and his hardness.

When Sherlock came in John’s hand, his muscles spasmed, tightening around John’s cock. John bit down on Sherlock’s neck, grunting.

Sherlock, the deliberate bastard, started tightening his muscles with purpose, bringing John over the edge as murmured low encouragement in his ear and rolled his hips languidly.

When the orgasm hit him, John sagged in Sherlock’s arms, his body loose, feeling completely boneless and elated.

“Holy mother of God,” John huffed, running a hand through his hair.

Sherlock cocked his head, smirking, “Not quite.”

John laughed and laughed.

“I love you, you idiot.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Prellies.](http://www.beatlesbible.com/features/drugs/)
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> Please leave a comment! I wasn't really sure whether to finish this or not, if it worked etc. 
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> Follow me @[caspu](http://caspu.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope to see you next time :) xx


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